


Woods of Nightshade Morrowless

by toriangeli



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toriangeli/pseuds/toriangeli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several years after Erebor was retaken, a shadow returns to Dol Guldur and the Elvenking is taken prisoner by Sauron's forces.  When armies fail to save him, Thorin takes a page out of Bilbo's book and slips into the old fortress alone to rescue his former enemy, still perplexed by the grace the Elvenking showed him after the Battle of Five Armies.  It is the journey home afterward, through the dark and twisted miles of Mirkwood, that will make or break a delicate affection and understanding between the two leaders of nations.  Prompt fill for hobbit-kink on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Original prompt: Thranduil is in danger and Thorin comes to his rescue. Thorin is cursing the entire time about stupid elves but his every action is screaming how much he cares about Thranduil and how scared he was that Thranduil was hurt. He touches Thranduil so gently and with such reverence as he saves and takes care of him. They're not in a relationship before this and Thranduil is stupidly stunned by what Thorin is revealing to him. I'd love a lot of hurt-comfort and for this to lead to a loving relationship. I'd love for both Thranduil and Thorin to end up being emotionally vulnerable at some point._

“You must not go alone,” Fili pleaded.

It was not an entirely selfless plea, Thorin knew. If anything happened to Thorin, Fili was not confident that he would be the king their struggling, recovering society needed. Moreover, the responsibility and lack of freedom thrust on one so young would be difficult to bear. But Thorin, though he had been through much and learned from it, was still stubborn and proud, and he did not like to owe a debt.

_”Comes the Elvenking to gloat over my weakness?” Thorin asked tiredly, looking pointedly at the canvas tent wall snapping and flapping in the wind. He would not turn his head to look at his visitor. While he had recovered much, he was still deemed too weak to carry up the Mountain._

_But he did not hear an answer, only the click of metal shifting against metal, a sword rattling in a scabbard. Thorin turned so quickly the world spun round him for a moment after he had stopped moving, but when it stood still at last, the sight before him was of the Elvenking still as a statue, offering Orcrist with both hands._

_Thorin watched the sword and the hands for some moments, waiting for the blade to be drawn and used against him, but nothing happened. His eyes flickered up to the Elvenking's face, but there he saw only a deliberate blankness, a diplomatic neutrality. Only a slight tension to the elf's mouth betrayed a certain displeasure. With one quiet step, Thranduil approached the bedside and set the sword into Thorin's hands as they instinctively rose to receive what was his._

_“I should not have taken it from you,” said the Elvenking as he stepped back, his voice as impassive as his face. “I grant you your parole, though it is far too late now to make a difference.”_

_Thorin's hands twisted around the scabbard, but the rest of him relaxed into the pillows as the wariness around his heart unclenched. “Not so,” he said wearily. “Elf-king, a parole is an agreement made in honor. You had no reason to honor me when I acted without honor.”_

_The Elvenking's lips twitched. “You have now done so. If I was too blind to see that such a thing existed in you when we met, then there was fault on my part. I have now made amends.”_

_Thorin smiled bitterly and gave a dry chuckle. “You do not apologize for taking me captive in the first place.”_

_Thranduil acknowledged this with a shallow tilt of his head._

_It hurt to laugh, and Thorin resented the Elvenking for making him do it. “Two days ago my kin and I survived a mighty battle only through the intervention of your healers. A battle you surely would have lost had the dwarves of the Iron Hills not come.” To fight Thranduil and Bard, yes, but they could well have strategically withdrawn to allow the orcs to finish off their enemies. Thranduil seemed to know this, as the look of displeasure returned again. “What is now between us, my old enemy? You regret only the least of your transgressions.”_

_The Elvenking spoke with a slow deliberateness. “I have done nothing in many years that was not necessary to keep my people safe. I daresay once you have been King Under the Mountain for any amount of time, you will make similar choices without regret.”_

_Thorin gave him a grin that must have seemed skeletal, for Thranduil looked away. “And if you had seen the honor in me? Would you have kept me then?”_

_“You broke my laws,” Thranduil said carefully._

_“Aye, we did. And had you broken mine, I would have done the same. But I doubt I would have returned to you your sword.”_

_The Elvenking looked sharply at him then. Thorin was no longer smiling. He held the elf's gaze for some time before continuing softly, words punctuated with bitterness._

_“I have been very foolish, Elvenking. But you must expect it of any king with little experience. I have risked the lives of my kin against a dragon. I have been blinded by gold and turned my neighbors into my enemies. And still you see honor in me! Are the Elves of Mirkwood so sheltered in their hovel as to be naïve?”_

_“Nay, not naïve.” Thranduil was frowning slightly. “To the contrary, King Under the Mountain, there are many honorable folk who have acted dishonorably from time to time, with or without experience to wisen them. There are many great kings who have been wrong. You have proved your great worth, and shaken a madness that consumed your grandfather. Do not judge yourself too harshly.”_

_Thorin looked away again so Thranduil wouldn't see his scowl. “Why offer me words of comfort? You bear no love for my people.”_

_There was no answer. When Thorin glanced toward the Elvenking, he found he was alone._

_...Elves._

Deep blue eyes, blue as the sky over the Mountain, blue as his brother Frerin's were, glinted in the lantern-light. Fili and Balin were the only ones who knew of Thorin's mission. They had sworn secrecy, but Fili had crept into the stables the night Thorin had said he would leave and waited for him. He had begged Thorin to let him come with him, but there had never been a chance his plea would be honored.

For the hands that had returned to him his honor were bound cruelly, the bright eyes dulled, the lithe body starved and beaten, the fae-like woodland king kept in a dark cell of stone and iron. The images would not leave Thorin's mind, of Thranduil twisted and huddled into himself to protect against the cold, crusted blood gluing his golden hair to his face. The proud bearing was humbled, the long fingers broken, the sharp mind of a diplomat tormented by the spirit that had returned to Dol Guldur. An army had been sent from Mirkwood twice, the second time allied with the Men of Dale, and twice had been defeated. Southern Mirkwood was again the domain of the Necromancer, and the Elvenking was his captive, though Thorin could not imagine how the elf had been so foolish, so very _inconsiderate_ , as to be taken.

But where armies fail, a single burglar might be of use. The burglar did not have to be Thorin, but while he had come to an epiphany years ago during the Battle of Five Armies, he was still Thorin Oakenshield, proud and stubborn and sure that if he sent another, he would be unable to rest. He wanted to be sure the job was done right. If it was his failing as a dwarf and as a king, so be it. And if a dwarf cannot find gold in a dark place, he is no dwarf at all.

So Thorin grasped Fili's shoulder in one last farewell, looking into his brother's likeness with confidence.

“But I must.”

Releasing Fili, he mounted his pony with a single swift motion and rode away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: gore.

As soon as he saw the tower, Thorin was already cursing himself and the elf for leading him into this mess.

The fortress had once been Oropher's capital, a stone castle built by the wood-elves in the Second Age before Sauron had begun to rise in the South. Oropher had led his people northward then, fearing Sauron to the South and the dwarves of Moria to the West and Galadriel's influence across the Great River (from what he knew of Oropher, it seemed to Thorin that Thranduil's prejudices were very moderate by comparison). Ever since, the fortress on Amon Lanc had been empty and unused till the Necromancer made his home there. For six hundred years since the Watchful Peace, he had waged his war. Almost incidentally, he had captured Thrain and tortured him till he could not remember his own name.

Some of the fortress was ruined, lying as rubble on the black and thorny hill, but the outer wall and inmost tower were in fairly good repair for something that was not dwarf-work. Thorin had ridden south from Erebor and slept with one eye open ever since entering the great wood. He had thought himself to be doing very well, having survived on his own while traveling parallel to an orc-path and using natural cover at night to hide from the spiders and even less savory creatures. But seeing the tower reminded him that he had come this far only for this, and he still had a long journey back, ideally with a former captive in tow. And where was he to find this captive? It was not information he could squeeze from the throat of any orc.

If he kept a prisoner in a tower like that, which room would he be kept in?

Thorin tied his pony up well away from the fortress walls, sat down, and thought.

It wasn't his thoughts that revealed the location, but his eyes upon the tower. For it occurred to him that the tower itself was far too narrow to be a formidable place to keep a prisoner once the outer wall was breached, if it ever was breached. Moreover, the only torches that gleamed in its narrow windows were near the very top. Most telling of all were the small stone cylinders jutting up from the dead grass on the hill around the tower. Small chimneys. Even narrow windows would be disliked by orcs during the daytime, so there had to be somewhere else where they stayed.

Thranduil was not within the tower, but beneath it.

Slipping inside the walls was not difficult. Doing so _quietly_ had only been doable by removing his boots and leaving them with his pony. A fiery frustration erupted in him when he considered how much better the elf would do if their roles were reversed. Between him and the tower now lay a wide open courtyard on a steep uphill slope.

Gandalf had braved this place once. Here, Thrain had gone mad.

Thorin clung to the shadows. Was that part of this? He had shaken the madness of Thror and now wished to confront the madness of Thrain? In the meantime, he seemed to have developed his own madness, risking everything for a pair of slender hands and eyes that did not judge. Risking everything for...what? For a peer. For a chance to prove the Elvenking's words right? For _something_ that was far more selfish than his actions made it seem.

He could not stay here for ever. The thought of Thranduil, of _anyone_ in that place, tormented to madness like the spectre of his father, was too great to bear. But even if he managed to get to the Elvenking, how would he get him out? He had to suppose the elf was able to walk, at least, and willing to live. Anything worse, he would deal with when he came to it. If he wasn't captured before then.

_So be it. I shall be your honorable prisoner, Elvenking._

Thorin pulled his hood over his face and peeled away from the shadow of the outer wall. Orcrist hung at his side, its bright sheathe wrapped in dark wool cloth, the blade sharp and ready to draw orc-blood. Underfoot brittle, dry grass crackled softly as he stepped. Along the walls, small fires burned in braziers. Orc watchmen were careless, having not been warned by scouts of anyone coming. They had a right to assume they were safe, for only one thus far had entered Dol Guldur and come out of it alive. Soon, it would be three.

There was only one door into the tower, and it was guarded. The windows were far too narrow for even the slenderest child to pass through. But Thorin had come prepared for guarded doors, at least. The first guard, then the second guard fell to carefully-aimed throwing knives before they could cry out. Retrieving his knives, he slipped inside.

It was far, far too quiet. Thorin's hand tightened around Orcrist. No sounds of sport or gambling, nothing that signaled an orc presence at all beyond the Elvish blade's faint glow. No footsteps, only a set of wooden stairs leading up into the tower and down into the supposed barracks. Thorin descended the stairs as quietly as possible.

Downstairs were definitely barracks, in the sort of disrepair expected of orcs. But no one was there, and it made Thorin's skin crawl. A common room tapered into a corridor, which branched off into other corridors. All the doors were flung wide open except for one, at the very end of the last corridor.

The door wasn't even latched. It was cracked open, and swung open with a creak at Thorin's touch. Inside, lying boneless on the floor, golden hair splayed around him, was Thranduil, whose bright eyes were directly on Thorin.

Thorin froze. It wasn't even that Thranduil had looked up as he came in. His eyes had already been on that cracked-open door, and yet he lay on the floor with his body twisted uncomfortably, chest flat against the stone and legs turned to the side. His cheek was against the floor, his eyes alone turned up to the dwarf. He didn't move. For a moment, Thorin feared he was dead, till he saw the quick, shallow expansion of his ribs, like an injured bird's. The Elvenking was dressed only in a fine linen undertunic that reached down to his calves, the white fabric stained with patches of blood and torn or cut here and there. It was badly ripped and frayed and bloodstained at the knees, and Thorin could see the abrasions on hands and legs where the elf had no doubt been flung to the floor violently. The sleeves had crept up his arms, showing pale flesh peppered with green, yellow, and dark purple bruises old and new. There was pink new flesh from healing slashes on the soles of his feet. His face had been badly brutalized, no doubt from a sense of irony by the orcs who had handled him, but Thorin still knew his eyes. He would know those eyes if he were blind. Because even in this state, Thranduil's eyes were as calm and even and wary as they always had been, like a wounded animal who had accepted that he would either live or die by this newcomer's hand.

That changed the moment Thorin moved forward.

The elf flinched, ducking his head behind one scraped and swollen hand. It was a poor defense and it tore at Thorin's heart to see the proud Elvenking so humbled, but Thorin did not have time to convince Thranduil he was not a hallucination or a trick to further torment him. He reached under Thranduil's arms to hoist him upward and the elf went utterly limp.

Gritting his teeth, Thorin cursed softly in his mother tongue. "A plague on the stiff necks of elves," he muttered, pulling Thranduil high enough to make him sit up. The elf began to topple over again as part of his passive resistance.

"A plague on you! I am here to rescue you, you stubborn, skinny excuse for a scrawny-legged deer!" Thorin was far too preoccupied to think of a better insult, and afraid someone would hear him. With a frustrated sigh, he bent down to scoop the elf up in a bridal carry. And lifted. And huffed, and lifted again. Thranduil's toes barely cleared the floor, and his body was nearly folded double in Thorin's arms, his head lolling back freely so his hair brushed the floor, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Thorin swung around to carry him outside, stumbled, and thwacked the elf's feet against the door-frame. This wasn't working.

He set the elf down on the floor and spent a few seconds bent over him with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. That was when he saw the brown stain over Thranduil's ribs. A tug on the undertunic revealed a deep gash in the fabric and flesh that showed bone. He had been lying on that wound when Thorin came in, staring at an open door, unbound, and had not moved.

What had they done to him that Thorin could not see, to convince him to remain so?

Thorin sucked in a deep breath and took the elf by the underarms, hoisting him over one shoulder like a sack. It had to be agonizing for Thranduil, but the Elvenking made no sound but a few harsh breaths that quieted soon. He made it a way down the corridors before deciding he couldn't bear to continue kicking Thranduil in the face with the backs of his legs with every step. He sat the elf down against the wall and looked sternly into his eyes.

"I know you think I'm only here to hurt you more," he said lowly. "But if I was, that would happen whether or not you cooperate. And since I'm not, you had best get on your feet and walk, for I cannot carry you, and your stubbornness will get us both killed or worse. And if you've no will to live, you had best find it for just a few minutes. You can die after, if you like."

That seemed to rally something in the elf besides last-ditch defiance. After a moment, Thranduil's hands clasped Thorin's shoulders and pushed down, pulling him slowly to his feet. His breath rattled, and horrifically, Thorin could see his ribs expand and collapse in shallow breaths through the oozing gash in his side. Suddenly, the elf pressed himself back against the wall, eyes flashing wide with fear, breath coming in gasps. A second later, Thorin heard why. Footsteps thundered down the wooden stairs, accompanied by loud conversation in the Black Speech. Thorin drew Orcrist, the glow of the blade reflecting in the Elvenking's eyes as he turned toward the oncoming enemies.

There were only three, and one fell by one of his throwing daggers as he reached for an alarm bell. The other two were cut down swiftly. Thorin seized Thranduil's blood-encrusted hand and yanked him toward the staircase. But as the Elvenking lifted his foot to take the first step, Thorin could see beneath his undertunic that his legs were not only as bruised as his arms, but terribly atrophied. They were only halfway up before Thranduil was shaking with effort, but he did not stop. At the top, the elf's knees nearly gave way, and he leaned heavily on Thorin's shoulder for a moment to catch his breath. His hand seemed unnaturally warm against Thorin's shoulder. Unthinking, the dwarf king took it and gave it a squeeze before starting forward again into the deep shadows between the tower and the wall.

Even hurt and tormented, the Elvenking was much quieter than Thorin as they darted away from the tower. When they reached a shadow in a crook of the wall, Thorin felt Thranduil's hand on his shoulder, pushing him down, and he immediately obeyed the signal. They walked as low as possible along the wall, Thranduil's hand pressed to the wound in his side as if he was holding something in. No guards stood at the gate itself, for they were stationed all along the wall. And perhaps they had become reckless after two great victories against the wood-elves. But where was their army? How had their barracks been all but empty in a fortress that had withstood great hosts? It didn't seem right, and the thought twisted in his gut. Out fighting another battle with the elves?

Once outside the gate, it was a mad dash to where the pony was tied, and Thorin was relieved to find that the beast was still there and whole and munching on some ugly plant. Thranduil's breathing sounded positively dangerous. But when Thorin loaded him onto the pony, the stirrups would not lengthen enough, and the elf's legs dangled so far that his toes nearly dragged the ground. The Elvenking's long fingers tangled in the animal's mane and held on for dear life, a delicate cheekbone pressing against the dun hair on the back of its neck, lips parted and gasping. He had clearly spent his last strength. Thorin suddenly found himself resisting a completely mad urge to kiss that open mouth--in reassurance, in tenderness, in comfort, or for some other reason he could not define that could surely be better conveyed in another way. Tearing himself away from the sight, he took the pony's reins with one hand and untied it with the other. As they started forward, Thorin gave Thranduil a worried glance. The elf's eyes had gone glassy again, and on the back of the pony his undertunic had ridden up to his thighs. In white linen and unnaturally pale skin, only the bright gold of his hair kept him from looking utterly like a ghost. But ghost or not, here he was, and the two of them had escaped Dol Guldur with life and perhaps even sanity intact.

_I have done what two dwarven kings could not before me._ And yet the mad itch that had caused him to do this was far from scratched. Hissing out his breath against it, he put on his discarded boots and marched into the dark of the wood, leading the pony.

 

Thorin dared not stop for hours, not till he was swaying and stumbling on his feet. He had led the pony straight north, unconcerned with finding a path and in fact quite adverse to them. Surely the Elvenking would know his own way around his own forest, would he not? Provided he lived.

It was day, or else the dwarf would have been unable to see anything. He eased the Elvenking from the pony and set him on as flat a patch of earth as he could find. He covered Thranduil from the waist down with a blanket and lifted his undertunic up to expose the wound over his ribs. A gentle press extracted pus and a soft murmur from the elf. Thorin swallowed. He knew only the crudest of field medicines. With a deep breath, he smoothed the hair back from Thranduil's face.

"Rest. I will return shortly."

When he came back, he had gathered what he needed from the carcass of a deer. Swallowing as he knelt beside the Elvenking, he studied the face haloed in gold while his medicine writhed in his hand. Thranduil did not even look at him, though his chest continued heaving shallowly. With a softly muttered apology, Thorin dropped the fistful of maggots into the wound.

That got a reaction. Thranduil gasped and shot upright, scraped and reddened hands scrabbling to claw the creatures out, but Thorin seized both his thin wrists and held on, careful not to add to the bruises already there. Several of the maggots were knocked out by the act of sitting up alone, but the others held on and began to feast on the dead flesh inside the wound, cleaning out the infection. Thranduil fell back and writhed once in protest, then went still, eyes sliding shut. Still Thorin held his wrists, although his grip loosened. After a moment, he released him, fingers trailing a lock of golden hair before he could stop them.

"You must withstand it," he said softly. "It will help the wound heal."

Thranduil's eyes opened, blank and heartbreakingly dry. Thorin almost wanted to weep if the elf would not. Instead, he carefully drew the blanket up to the Elvenking's chin, making sure to leave it loose over the wound.

"Rest," he commanded gruffly as he lay back against the trunk of a tree. "You are out of harm's way now."

_You are out of harm's way for ever, by my life. I have earned it._ Thorin stared at the pale creature for whom he has risked so much. How aware was he of what was happening? Did he even believe it was real? Was he too broken to care? He thought not to the latter, or Thranduil would never have participated in his own rescue enough to even walk. Perhaps it was too early to tell.

After a moment of hitched breathing, the Elvenking let out a sigh, his eyes going half-mast. A moment later, his breathing was deep and even. Elven sleep was so very strange Thorin almost didn't know what he was looking at. Only when he realized it did he truly relax himself, and without waiting for permission, sleep claimed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, "maggot therapy" is a real thing. No, do not try it at home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: gore

When Thorin woke, it was completely dark. That was the way night and day worked in Mirkwood. Day was night and night was death.

He shot up straight, blinking blearily and waving his hand in front of his face, palm out. No spiderwebs.A mad scramble, hands in the dark, groping, finding, striking, and he had a lantern lit.A few feet away lay the Elvenking, still and pale and looking up open-eyed toward the treetops, the gold river of his hair gleaming in the lantern-light. Thorin slumped back against the tree in relief. He hadn't meant to sleep, and he certainly hadn't meant to sleep till nightfall. The lantern rattled as he crawled forward with one hand and both knees, trying to keep the light from clacking against the barren forest floor. The pony nickered, seeing him awake and thinking it was time for dinner, but Thorin ignored it.

He set the lantern beside the Elvenking and gently drew back the blanket. The maggots had done good work while he slept. Much of the flesh was now clearly pink, not red, even by the dim lantern-light. He brushed them away with a finger, grimacing at tacky feel of the pulsing, pale bodies. Once they were gone, all that was left was very healthy, unfestered tissue. It was the _shape_ of the wound that was worrisome. Thorin had never seen a weapon that could make a wound like that, deep and broad and long as though someone had taken a spoon and scraped away the skin and muscle.

It was with that thought that he saw the subtle rippling at the ends of the wound.

Thorin recoiled in horror. There was no other explanation. An orc had taken a bite out of the Elvenking's living flesh. The dwarf's eyes flicked up to the elf's face. Thranduil's bright eyes were on him, face as blank as always, but somehow Thorin knew that the elf could see, could read in his face the ugly conclusion he had drawn.

Thranduil closed his eyes and gave what seemed to be a resigned sigh. The visible ribs inside the wound contracted. Thorin quickly stumbled to his feet and to his pack.

One of Óin's tinctures—Thorin trusted no other—cleansed the wound further, though the sting of it causedThranduilto jerk and give a small cry before he bit down on his fist. It was the most Thorin had heard the elf's voice since finding him, and proved once and for all that Thranduil had not gone mute. When the wound was bandaged and Thranduil was breathing evenly again, Thorin knelt by his side and smoothed strands of gold away from his forehead with his palm, partly to check for fever and partly to signal the elf to look at him.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked quietly lest someone be nearby.

Thranduil's eyes met his, bright lights in the dark, and he nodded.

“Do you know who I am?”

The elf's lips parted as if to speak, but after a moment, shut again. He nodded again.

“Can you speak?” Thorin thought it was worthwhile to check, anyway.

“Will you insist on interrogating me as well, then?”

The words nearly made Thorin jump. The Elvenking's voice was very quiet and hoarse, as if he had had a horrible cold he was only now recovering from. Or as if he had been screaming himself voiceless for weeks. But it was the accusation in the words that made Thorin stiffen.

“Your gratitude moves me deeply,” he said gruffly. Thranduil's perfect mouth frowned slightly—it was too much like a pout to Thorin's eyes, although he knew that was not what it was—and the elf turned his face away.

The dwarf chewed the inside of his cheek briefly before speaking again. “I'll not move you. Here we will stay, for now. Do you know if this is a good place for it?”

A weary sigh came from the Elvenking. “As good as any, for now. But we should not stay long.”

Thorin bristled briefly, about to snarl that he was not a fool and knew what he was doing, but his eyes landed on the thin, pale body barely illuminated by lantern-light and he thought better of it. Winning an argument with a convalescent would be rather like winning a fight with a lame pup. Instead, he ground his teeth long enough to build up all his tension, then release it by stretching his jaw briefly.

“We will not. No doubt they will be hunting for you.”

“No.” The glassy eyes blinked slowly. “No, they have _let_ me escape, I am sure of it.”

Hearing his deed so diminished in Thranduil's words made Thorin bristle again. “Why would they do such a thing?”

“He said,” Thranduil said quietly, “that I would not be killed. He left the door open that I may leave after a while, but I was sure it was a trick, and it was. If I stayed, my people would remain leaderless for only a time before my children took my place. But if I returned, the leader of my people would be a withered and broken spirit proven ineffective against the forces which threaten to oppress them. He—the Nazgul, yes, for it is not the Necromancer who has returned to Dol Guldur. It is his minion.”

Thranduil shut his eyes.

“You should have left me to die.”

Thorin could only stare, open-mouthed, for nearly a minute. His mouth closed, then opened again, then his teeth ground together as he felt his ears redden. How _dare_ he! How dare he give up the gift Thorin had risked so much to give him!Why, Thorin had left his kingdom on the notion that a sword returned and an acknowledgment of honor had meant something between them, and the Elvenking couldn't even take what he was offered!

“No,” he said stubbornly. Thranduil didn't move. Thorin grabbed his chin and forced his face towards him, and the bright eyes snapped open, lithe body tensing.

“No,” Thorin repeated sternly. “You can't give up your life. I bought it for you, so it's mine to do with as I please. If you don't want it, then I won't take you home till you are good and ready to accept it, do you understand?”

_You gave to me my sword. I give to you your life._

Thranduil grimaced and struggled against his grip. Thorin cupped his jaw in both hands to hold him still without resorting to a bruising grip and brought his own face close.

“You _will not_ refuse me.”

The Elvenking's breathing was coming quick—he was frightened. Not of Thorin, but of a shadow of something that had happened that this reminded him of.

“I must,” he said steadily. “For my people--”

“You haven't _his_ options any longer, Thranduil. You have only mine. _He_ never counted on you being rescued and not going straight home. You are a king and awarrior. You know to make a third option when your enemy gives you only two. So that is exactly what we will do, and you will be whole again.”

Thranduil's struggling ceased gradually. Thin hands weakly grasped Thorin's shirt, and he went limp, pressing his face against the dwarf's chest. Thorin released his face and drew his arms around him.

“I do not want it,” Thranduil whispered. “Let me see my home before I die.”

“I did not,” Thorin said gruffly, “give you the option to die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to evocates for beta-ing this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

They had rested till it was light before Thorin helped Thranduil onto the pony and they moved on. They had only been a matter of miles from Dol Guldur, and Thorin had felt unsafe despite the Elvenking's insistence that they would not be pursued. Being the more optimistic of two people felt very strange, but he did not try to talk Thranduil into seeing his perspective. He guided him as quietly as possible, with Orcrist unsheathed before him so they might be warned if any enemies came upon them. The Elvenking spoke no word, and hadn't done so since their conversation the night before. Thorin could not read his thoughts as he swayed astride his mount, face pale and impassive, eyes as perfectly glassy and opaque as a pair of dwarven mirrors. He needed to eat, Thorin could tell, but he needed something better than the _cram_ or jerky Thorin had brought. He needed fresh things he did not need to work at to chew and swallow and digest. Something his weakened and undernourished body could handle without vomiting back up. Mild fruit or cooked cereal or bland soup would work best. Fruit and cereal were out of the question in this place, and Thorin hadn't a bone to boil for broth without slaughtering the pony or hacking off his own leg. As both were out of the question, he would need to hunt for it.

They stopped next at another stream. Thorin tied the pony up near the shallow banks to take a drink and reached for Thranduil's elbow to help him down. To his surprise, Thranduil dismounted swiftly on his own, setting bare feet noiselessly on the turf without even sparing a glance for the dwarf. Thorin bit back a rude remark. Perhaps this was Thranduil with something to prove. But to his further astonishment, the elf grasped the hem of his linen undertunic and lifted it over his head, casting the garment to the ground and standing in the dim light bare as the day he was born.

When he stood, one could see how very long his hair was. It fell to a taper to the peak of his smooth, perfectly rounded buttocks. Below, his thighs were slim, his ankles thin, the remnants of bruises still faintly visible, his calves serving to create only the barest swell of curve. Ribs were visible along his sides, though his hair hid what Thorin had felt to be a too-prominent spine. Arms were slender, scarred, but his shoulders were broad as ever, his arms better muscled than his legs though the hands were still chafed and healing. And yet for all that the body was starved and weakened, Thorin could not stop staring at it. For Thranduil still carried himself like a king and a warrior, accustomed to thousands of years with a staff in his hand and a sword at his side.

It was...alluring.

For a moment Thranduil stood still as a poised deer, then he padded forward toward the stream, pale skin glowing in the darkness. His toes had dipped into the water when Thorin found his voice at last.

"Some of the rivers here are enchanted." He immediately knew how inane the warning was, and the Elvenking made it worse by casting an irritated glance over his shoulder.

"I know my own rivers," he said coldly, "and I am not apt to fall under my own spells." With that, he waded swiftly into the water.

Thorin stared, amazed and horrified simultaneously. Elves were not nearly so hardy as dwarves. He had heard they heal quickly, but to heal _this_ quickly seemed impossible. The bandage had been torn off with the tunic and lay stained brown on the shore. In the shadows, Thorin couldn't even see the bruises marring the white skin, but some of the cuts had become fine pink lines which, on a normal body, would become faint scars. On an Elvish body, would they even show in a few days?

Thranduil immersed himself up to his hips, enough for the water to wet the first few inches of his hair, when he stopped and swayed dangerously. As if moved by a force beyond his will, Thorin jerked forward and was splashing to his side at once, though the water was much higher for him than it was for the elf. It didn't matter if he soaked himself or looked like a fool, Thranduil was _not_ going to swoon face-first into the creek on his watch. He caught the elf just as his knees gave way. The golden head lolled, but the eyes were still open, his lips moving soundlessly. Quickly the dwarf checked the rib wound—still open, but with a thick line of pink flesh around the perimeter only hours after the maggots had been removed. Thorin held him tight till the fainting spell began to ease and the words Thranduil was speaking grew audible.

"Too fast. That is all. I moved too quick and..." Eyes slid closed, brows furrowing.

Thorin shushed him. "We'll go back ashore," he said firmly. "You shouldn't walk."

"No." Thranduil raised his head with some effort, and his eyes briefly lost focus. "I cannot stand this filth any longer."

Thorin's hold on the elf eased slightly as Thranduil began to gain his feet somewhat. "Then sit in the shallows and bathe yourself. I will find us dinner."

Fortunately there was no resistance. Thorin supported the elf as they waded back to the shallows by the banks. The elf sat in the water and took his time, chafing his skin gently with handfuls of sand and soaking the bloodied ends of his hair till the clots loosened and flowed away in the water. Hands filled with water and washed blood and grime from his face first. Thorin watched from the banks until he started shivering, then ground his teeth and started digging through his pack for spare clothing. Dressing in front of the Elvenking would once have inspired blind fury in him, but now he gave it no thought at all. It was the same as dressing in front of one of his brothers in arms, one of his own company. Everyone had already seen everything anyway back then, so why not initiate Thranduil if they were to be journeymates indefinitely?

He dried off, dressed, and hung his wet clothes up to dry. By then, Thranduil was rid of most of his grime and was gently washing his tattered undertunic in the water now. It occurred to Thorin that this meant the Elvenking would be naked for quite some time till the garment dried, which could take a very long time indeed in this lightless forest. Thorin chewed the inside of his cheek, feeling an odd warmth spread over his body. _Blushing_. He growled slightly at himself before starting to root around for his bow and a quiver of arrows.

"You'll not catch anything," Thranduil said from the stream. The tunic was spread over a bush now, dripping wet, while the Elvenking crouched in the water, hands spread and poised over the surface.

Thorin cast a sharp look at him, trying not to let his gaze linger too close to those parted legs. "Have you a better idea? I don't trust _cram_ will sit well in your belly. Perhaps if it is softened by water..."

"There are fish," came the reply.

Thorin frowned, walking slowly toward the Elvenking from behind. "We didn't scare them all off?"

"Only for a little. Now hush, for I've not done this in a very long time."

Thorin waited, watching in anticipation. He was beginning to get impatient when Thranduil's hands darted forward into the water and swiftly pulled out a wriggling, flapping bluegill at least seven inches long.

The dwarf's bushy eyebrows rose. “Oh ho! Can you get two or three more like that?” He darted forward to help, as holding on to the fish was apparently nearly as difficult as catching it was. They managed to get the thing speared on his knife before the Elvenking sank to the muddy banks, dizzy again.

“Perhaps not,” he admitted breathlessly.

Thorin didn't need to take a second look at Thranduil's starved body. “ _Cram_ it is for me, then,” he said heartily, forcing himself to make it sound like a satisfying meal. “And I will make a mush of it for you, to eat with your fish. And after, I will have a look at that wound, the one over your ribs.”

 

The fire they risked lasted only long enough to cook. As it turned out, making a fish soup took longer than Thorin had thought it would at first. Well, it didn't have to be _good_ fish soup, he supposed, although he threw in some of Oin's herbs along with the fish head and bones to make the broth. While that boiled, he prepared the rest of the fish and worked a wafer of _cram_ into crumbs. The head and bones were retrieved from the broth and the fish's meat and crumbs were added. He was sure Thranduil would spit it straight back out, but perhaps a summer's worth of whatever rot the orcs were feeding him made any hot meal into a feast. Thranduil all but inhaled the soup. What he could not finish, Thorin ate along with his own meager fare, for storing and carrying liquid food was impossible for them unless it was in their bellies.

Before he kicked the fire out, Thorin lit a candle and placed it in the lantern, noting while he had light that there was at last some color in the Elvenking's cheeks. Thranduil was dressed again in his undertunic, which had dried quickly by the fire. It had not, however, repaired itself, nor made itself thicker, and the air was swiftly cooling as the day drew to a close. After treating and bandaging Thranduil's bite wound again, Thorin went to feed and water the pony. As he came back, he carried his cloak over his arm.

“Take this,” he said, tossing it into the Elvenking's lap. Thranduil looked unsurprised but grateful, giving a nod very much akin to a bow as he wrapped the wool around his shoulders and lay on his bedroll. He curled pitifully on his side so as to be covered by as much of the cloak as possible. Thorin spread a blanket over him and sat down behind him.

“Why are you doing this?”

The question was so soft, so very nearly _timid_ , that if Thorin didn't know them to be alone, he would never have thought it could come from the Elvenking. He supposed exhaustion had worn down the elf's careful filter, the one Thorin knew he held between his emotions and the rest of the world so that his people may see him only as a leader. Thorin had one of those filters himself, although he was not nearly so practiced in its use as Thranduil.

But he couldn't answer the question. Not when he had no real understanding of the answer himself.

“Sleep,” he bade him instead. “I will watch.”

He got no argument. Clearly the day had been full and exhausting for Thranduil. Moreover, he supposed elves didn't really need to wait till they fell asleep on their own, if they slipped into their odd trances at will. It was a curiosity, really. Soon, all the world was asleep except for Thorin, the wood unnaturally quiet except for the soft breathing of the elf-king.

Thorin's thick, callused fingers gently wrapped around strands of hair and drew them out of Thranduil's brutalized face, away from the healing scars and open lips where he might breathe them in as he slept. Continuing that physical thought, he began to braid the golden silk away from his face. The soul lying motionless on the ground, weak and fallen, had stood over Thorin once in judgment, tall and imposing and furious. To see him this powerless...

No. Not powerless at all. Even his choice to die was calculated to serve his people. Thorin remembered the Elvenking going boneless in his arms, impossible to carry. It was clear Thranduil had fought his captors with all his strength, and when he had no strength left, he fought them with his weakness. He would use anything at his disposal to serve his ends, even his own life, even his own despair.

And with that realization, Thorin began to understand why his people followed this man. That he was not merely an inheritor of a position--he was a king in his heart, in a way that must have been born into him many thousands of years before the title came to him. Born a king, but not even the son of a king until many years later. Dwarven legend spoke of that fool Oropher only because the tale of his untimely death cast the elves in a poor light. Thorin guessed he had a king's heart but not a king's head, was too rash and passionate. His death made way for Thranduil's reign, for Thranduil's guardianship to be in place when his people began their greatest trials. That couldn't be coincidence. The hand of the divine was in it. Could Oropher have possibly led his people through such a thing as the Last Alliance, from what Thorin believed of him? Or the Shadow in Dol Guldur, in a wood where nothing but nuts grew for food? Yet here was someone who saw even deficiencies as resources, whose mind was keen even when it was tormented. Surely the Song of the Ainur had placed this Elvenking as leader of this people, and therefore, placed Thorin specifically at the gates of Dol Guldur at a time when they were abandoned. Thorin had never been given to optimism, but this felt different. Not a positive outlook, but something much closer to faith.

Didn't elves have a word for it? Two different words for hope? Thorin couldn't remember either of them at the moment, but he understood why both words existed now. One for optimism, one for something deeper. What Thorin knew now--not felt, but knew--was surely the latter. The elf was his destiny, a purpose as important as any he had ever had, for he had already reclaimed his own homeland for his own people. He had saved one society. Now he would save another, or fate would do so through him. Fate which had placed the Elvenking on his throne, this priceless and worthy treasure of noble heart and sound honor even at his very lowest. But fate was not why Thorin had abandoned his kingdom, left its rule to his young nephew and risked his own death or capture and torment. Thorin had a duty, yes, but that was not why he lingered in the dark of Mirkwood and nursed a broken being painfully away from a bitter will to die, was it? He was saving the Elvenking because for once, Thorin had found someone who was worth more than all the things he had given up for him, all the things that were his birthright, the things for which he had striven, everything he had won after a lifetime of waiting and fighting.

Was that right? That he would give his place as his grandfather's heir, a throne for which much of his family had died, for the sake of an _elf_? Did it honor his grandfather, his father, his little brother, for there to be something he found of greater value than his throne?

And it came to him at last. What this was, what it had been since the day the Elvenking returned Orcrist to him.

_I love him._

He did not know what it meant. If that was why he had wanted to kiss him on the mouth before, if it was why he couldn't keep his hands out of that golden hair, if it was why he found the alien body so alluring. Somehow he thought that was only a very small part of it, a thin dusting of snow over a bottomless lake of ice, one of many colors in a spectrum. Certainly the allure hadn't been what began it, for it hadn't happened at all till Thorin had already been trapped by that heart of honor and stubborn will. And it grew stronger every day, as Thorin learned and grew in his understanding of the Elvenking, of his virtues and flaws and habits and tics and quirks.

Thorin began to shake. In relief, in excitement, afraid, anxious, furious, beginning to understand this mystery and fear and resent its unknown outcome. All his life, there had been one path to follow, and it had led to Erebor. It had led his people to their home. It had led him to his throne. Now his path led to Thranduil, and Thranduil's to his people. What did that mean for Thorin? Was this a phase he could shrug off with time, or would this willingness to give all he had for this heart that felt nothing for him cause his ruin? How many stories had ended that way?

Even if Thranduil returned it, his people would never accept it. _Thorin_ may never accept it. An elven paramour? Would Thranduil's folk be any better? Where could they find their home without becoming exiles? It was impossible. It would be one or the other--his people or Thranduil. Could he choose between one irrevocable destiny and another? Or was one destiny, his life with his people, more irrevocable than the one he faced now?

No, there was no choice. He was a king now. He couldn't afford guilty pleasures and luxuries like a love that could never bring children. No choice, and that infuriated him all the more. What was the point in this new destiny, then, if he was doomed to spend his life only wishing he could pursue it? Love was supposed to bring joy and comfort. Where was his?

Pah, what a useless thing this was.

The silk of Thranduil's hair slipped from his fingers and lay shimmering on the earth. It seemed Thorin's heart was ever doomed to chase after faraway gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Dream for her beta work!


End file.
